


Cosmos

by elixry



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Other, Slow Burn, characters and tags to be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-18 10:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elixry/pseuds/elixry
Summary: The events of the Great Comet leave Natasha, Pierre, and Andrei scattered. Linked by something deeper than they can say, they try to go back to their daily lives, but nothing is as it was. Can the trio rekindle their flame and bind themselves together, or will they fall apart?Canon divergent because I haven’t read War and Peace, but should follow the events of the Malloy Musical.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is longer than many of the essays i wrote in my single year of studying english at uni and it's only one chapter so far lmao also this is my first fic ever so??? lemme know if i've made mistakes but please be kind. I know nothing about war and peace other than the stuff in gc so please don't expect any kind of historical or fictional accuracy but um i love andrierretasha and that's all u really need to know

Pierre was never comfortable at formal events. The only thing that eased his discomfort at such events was the free wine that he would drink in darkened corners. Well. It was now. Once, he would have rarely attended these functions without the Prince Bolkonski dragging him along with the promise that he would have fun, that he was sure to charm some pretty young thing. Pierre would watch as he danced with every beautiful woman who caught his eye and remember the soft press of Andrei’s hands on his hands, his shoulders, his neck. The women didn’t worry Pierre. At the end of the night it was Pierre that Andrei would guide home. They would stumble into a coach together, fingers tangled together, Pierre’s head resting on Andrei’s chest. Even on the coldest nights, Pierre always thought that the moonlight felt warm.

And then Helene entered their lives. She was beautiful and witty and had paid attention to Pierre, coaxed him out of his corner and made him feel special. It wasn’t love, he knew it from the first, but he what could he do? Marriage brought with it security and respectability, and she was so beautiful. To think that someone like her would ever choose someone like him was intoxicating. But marriage was not what it had seemed, and she was spiteful, and he would spend each night watching her flirt and dance and kiss other men and women. He would think of Andrei, the distance that had begun to grow between them, however slight it was. On the way home, the moonlight was cold. 

Then there was Natasha. She shone so bright it almost hurt to look at. She was so young and pure and vibrant that Andrei could not help but love her. She, of course, could not help but love him back. Pierre knew that feeling. He had fallen for him too. 

They complimented each other so well, Natasha in all her radiance next to Andrei’s gentle splendour. If he felt a stab of something he refused to name when he watched them he didn’t say. He most certainly didn’t think about Andrei’s lips, the way they moved, or the couch in the Bolkonski’s library where he had had his first kiss, the way his neck tingled for minutes after. After all, he had stepped away first to live a boring life with a vicious wife. Andrei could hardly be blamed for falling for such a jewel of a woman. She was the sun to his moon, and Pierre could only marvel at them. 

Finally, there was Anatole. What could he say about Anatole? That he was a scoundrel, a cur, that he could rot in hell for all Pierre cared? That he had thought with his cock rather than his head and ruined the lives of the best two people in the world because of it? Pierre could see exactly how Natasha had been drawn in: she was lonely and naïve and Anatole had the same effortless charm as his sister. Neither of them had seen how miserable their relationships with the Kuragins would make them. The rumour mill in Moscow was ruthless. Countess Natalya Ilyinichna Rostova had not been seen in public since she broke off her engagement to Andrei. Prince Bolkonski had retreated from society to lick his wounds. Even Pierre could not coax him out. Pierre’s own marriage had failed spectacularly. Helene had spiralled out of control after her brother left, trying to lose herself in sex and drugs and drink anywhere she could find it. Anywhere except for in him, of course. She lost herself, but he knew that he had lost her before he had ever truly had her. 

He downed his drink and considered leaving. No one would miss him. No Andrei, Anatole was gone, of course, and Dolokhov had kept his distance since Helene’s funeral. He couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry. Though the scandal that had surrounded Natasha was now only ever a topic only brought up when most other topics of gossip had been exhausted, he found he could not forgive those involved. He wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive himself for not realising, for not stopping it before it had gone too far. He had tried to pick up the pieces, but it wasn’t enough. He remembered Natasha’s face the night he had proposed, remembered the gratitude. Gratitude he didn’t deserve. She was so lovely and he was fat and married and somehow as in love with her ex-fiancé as he was with her. The same ex-fiancé that had suited her so well. She should have married him, should have lived with and loved him all her life long. How stupid he must have been to offer himself as any kind of replacement. And yet… That face, so joyful and vulnerable and scared, haunted him. It was there every time he closed his eyes. If he was careful, if he gagged all the reasons that she could never admire him as he admired her, he could imagine she had loved him for one impossible moment-

A hand rested on his shoulder and a sweet, familiar voice filled his ears.

“Count Bezhukov. I was hoping I might see you tonight. I heard about the countess, and I wished to express my deepest condolences.”

Pierre jumped and was suddenly beyond relieved that he had finished his drink before he could spill it over Natasha’s perfectly white dress. She was holding a champagne flute, sipping on it delicately as she waited for his answer. How had he missed her arrival? He should have noticed the moment she stepped into the room, should have felt it lighten in her presence. 

“Natasha- Countess. You startled me.” He paused to search her face. What was she thinking? They hadn’t seen each other since Helene died. It had felt like a betrayal, somehow. It was foolish, Helene had had countless affairs and his one sided affection for Natasha could hardly be considered unfaithfulness, and yet… 

“I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I should apologise. I was lost in thought. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Natasha’s face dropped so slightly that someone less attentive might have missed it. 

“Not that I’m upset by your presence,” he added hastily, “In fact, I’m delighted that you are. You are the best company any man or woman, any person on this earth could wish for. And your condolences are very much appreciated, though I must remind you that it has been months since her passing.”

“Even so. I would have been at the funeral, only Marya thought it might stir up new gossip.” 

“She was probably right. Your godmother is a formidable woman.”

There was a pause. Pierre scrambled for something to say. Should he comment on her dress? Her jewellery? He didn’t recognise the necklace around her throat. It was not the one that Andrei had given her, nor the pearls that his wife had been so fond of. Would it be rude to mention it? His throat felt like it was closing up. 

“I’ve missed you. I thought you would visit. I wanted to be there for you, the way you were there for me. Why didn’t you visit?”

Pierre felt blood rush to his face.

“I… You see, I, um, I, ah… I thought, I mean, I…” 

Natasha raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging on the corner of her lips.

“I, um. I wasn’t sure you would want to see me. I have been so forward, when I had no right to be. I was married, and... Well. When I wasn’t I realised what I fool I must have seemed to you.”

Natasha stared at him. Pierre shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze. It felt wrong somehow, to have her look at him like that. It was too intimate, too intense, full of surprise and sadness and tinged with something that might have been affection. “You are not a fool, Pierre, nor have you ever seemed like one to me.” she said. Pierre felt a shiver run down his spine. Something fundamental seemed to have shifted. Perhaps it had shifted that night he had told her he loved her, and he simply hadn’t noticed till now. His breath hitched in his throat. There had to be something he should say, some kind of response, but… 

“Natalya! I told you to stay close to me.” 

The moment shattered. Marya stalked towards Natasha, clearly ready to scold her. Pierre felt a twinge of pity. Marya was not a woman he would want to cross. Natasha gave a guilty start and turned to her godmother, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin defiantly. Marya was not a woman that Pierre wished to cross, but then neither was Natasha. Even so, he had no desire to see Natasha humiliated for something that he was not sure was even a wrongdoing. He inclined his head to Marya in greeting. “Marya Dmitriyevna. It’s good to see you. Where is Sonya? I have not seen her tonight”

Marya relaxed. “Ah, Pierre. Poor Sonyushka has taken ill and could not join us this evening. Forgive me if I was sharp, it seems that some people don’t know how to do as they're told.” She fixed Natasha with a glare. Natasha responded by rolling her eyes. Pierre stifled a chuckle. It was good to see Natasha recovering.

“I saw Pierre across the ballroom. He looked so gloomy, and it’s been so long since he came to see us. I couldn’t see the harm in it.”

Marya pursed her lips. “Though I agree that Pierre is not a danger, the rumour mill of Moscow most certainly is. Your reputation cannot take another scandal. Pierre’s intentions may be noble, but there are some who might not see it that way.” 

“Peace, Marya. Natasha has done nothing wrong. Should anyone try to suggest anything untruthful or unkind I will nip it in the bud. I am hardly known for my womanising ways.”

“You are kind, Pierre, but I’m afraid I will not take chances. It was my lack of attention that allowed her to fall into this mess in the first place and I will not make the same mistake twice.”

Natasha scowled. “I’m not a child, godmother.”

“No? Then what is this foolish and reckless thing I see before me, hmm? Until I can be sure that you have grown up then a child you shall remain.”

“I hardly think Natasha is a child, Marya. She was misled by a thoughtless but very, very attractive young man- or so I have heard from countless women who thought my association with his family might lead them into his path. There are few in Moscow who can claim their heads have never been turned.”

“Nonetheless, for the meantime it is best that she have a chaperone at such events as these, and that she does not spend too much time in dark corners with rich widowers.” Marya fixed Pierre with a significant look and he felt his face grow hot once more. He stammered, unsure what to say. Did Marya know about his proposal? The thought was mortifying. 

“Marya!”

Natasha was gazing at her godmother in horror. Marya seemed unaffected.

“Natasha, my darling, I know Pierre is a gentleman. But he is no longer married, and I am sure a great number of women would be proud to have him as their husband. And so, we should take our leave.”

“But-”

“Oh, don’t argue with me. He is always welcome in my house, should he choose to call. It is quiet in the houses, and with Sonya ill as she is I think Natasha would appreciate the company.”

Natasha’s eyes shone as she turned to Pierre. “Oh, you must come! I can only hope that you have stayed away to avoid tedious company. I’d hate to think I was boring you.”

Pierre laughed. “I think that might be impossible. Musty old scholars who lock themselves in their studies are tedious, and you are quite the opposite.”

“I’ve been all but locked inside a drawing room for the past three months with no gossip and little news of the outside world, which I think might amount to the same thing, but I’m glad. You’ll come then?”

“Of course.” 

“You promise?”

“Most solemnly.” 

Natasha smiled and reached her arms around his neck. Her lips were made for joy, Pierre thought, and then they were pressed to his cheek so gently and quickly that he wasn’t sure they had ever been there. Her hands slid down to his arms and lingered there as she spoke.

“I hate to leave you here all alone.”

“Don’t worry about me. I was thinking of leaving before you arrived. It is late, and Helene was the one who loved parties.”

“If you’re sure…”

Marya cleared her throat. Natasha’s hands slipped away. Pierre’s skin tingled beneath his jacket where she had touched him. 

“In that case, Pyotr Kirillovich Bezukhov, I shall see you soon. And be warned, if you break your promise I may have to seek you out myself.”

“Then I will see you whether I visit you or not, but don’t worry. I won’t stay away any longer.”

“Good. Until we meet again, Pyotr Kirillovich.”

“Until we meet again, Natalya Rostova, Marya Dmitrievna.”

Marya made her farewells. Natasha hooked an arm around Marya’s and allowed herself to be led away. Pierre watched her go and pretended not to notice the glance she tossed over her shoulder at him. 

 

Outside, the snow was falling, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, in Pierre’s chest, his heart felt warm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honour of kuragins, this chapter has a lot of sonya. never let it be said that i don't read the comments, folks. also i'm convinced that ao3 shrinks the wordcount because this was nearly 3 pages long on microsoft word what

Natasha pushed the door to the bedroom she shared with Sonya closed as quietly as she could. Her cousin had always been a light sleeper. Sonya was not so very ill, but letting her rest was the least Natasha could do after everything she had done for her since Andrei returned. It was the least she could do, but she felt that her heart might burst from keeping her silence. What a night it had been! The candles, the champagne, the food, the dancing, and, most thrilling of all, Pierre. She let out a happy little sigh and pressed her hands to her lips. He was so lovely, always flattering and earnest and awkward in a way that was endearing rather than unnerving, and how handsome he had looked in his finest jacket! She was almost surprised at the way her heart had leapt upon seeing him. She hadn’t realised just how much she missed him. She hadn’t realised just how much she cared. She wondered how Helene had not seen him as the gem he truly was. To listen to her speak, Natasha could have believed that Pierre was fat and ugly and boring. It wasn’t true. Yes, he was fat, but he was far from ugly. Very far, in fact. Natasha tried to stop a smile when she thought of his eyes, usually so sad, but always kind and always beautiful. He had looked at her with joy that night. Everyone else had watched her with calculation, curiosity or reproach. It had been strange not to be the darling of the crowd, but Pierre had made it all melt away. It had been so good to see him.

She tiptoed across the room, guarding the candle she had brought with her to light her way. A floorboard creaked under her foot and she winced.

“Tasha?” Sonya mumbled.

“Yes, sweet one, it’s me. Hush now, go to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Natasha walked to her bed and placed the candle down. Poor Sonya. She slipped into her nightgown quickly, hoping to be in bed before Sonya could wake up fully. Sadly, it was not to be. As she blew out the candle there was another rustle of silk and wool and cotton, and Sonya sat up in bed.

“I’ve slept enough. No doubt it was all very grand,” She paused to yawn. “and now you’re dying to tell me what I’ve missed, hmm?”

Natasha bit her lip. It was true, she desperately wanted to sit by Sonya’s feet and tell her everything.   It was a selfish urge, but a tempting one. It wasn’t the ball that she wanted to tell Sonya about, not really. It was Pierre. But then, would she understand? Last time she had told Sonya about a man it had ended disastrously. She knew that Sonya had just been trying to protect her, and that she had been right, but it still stung a little that she hadn’t trusted her enough to make her own decision. What if she panicked about whatever it was that Natasha could feel blossoming inside of her? What if she thought that Natasha was foolish to even consider a man so close to her ex-fiancé? Especially a man who had only given her attention when he was married and she was vulnerable. She did not believe that it stemmed from malice, but she had believed Anatole when he told her loved her. What if Sonya thought she was being naïve and putting herself in danger once again.

Noticing Natasha’s hesitation, Sonya sighed and lifted the blankets. “Come on. It will be like when we were girls- you remember how we used to tell each other secrets? It’ll be fun.” She said. She patted the space next to her on the bed. That decided it. When they were little, Natasha or Sonya would creep into the others bed and lie back to back, whispering to each other in the darkness. It was a ritual that had lasted across the years. First, they had used it to complain about their teachers. As they grew they had gossiped about boys- or rather, Natasha had gossiped about boys. Sonya was always quiet when Natasha tried to pry some interest out of her. Later, it was rarer. Sonya had crawled into Natasha’s bed crying one night, and Natasha had told her nonsense stories about flowers and ballgowns and who was courting who until she fell asleep. The night of her first kiss she had gone to Sonya and told her all about the sweet prince who had cupped her face and kissed her beneath the full moon, how it had felt like all the world was singing. After Andrei left, their night time talks stopped completely. The last time she had snuck into her cousin’s bed was the night that she had poisoned herself.

The memory was not a happy one.

Now, curled up beside her cousin and full of good news, Natasha found it impossible to hold back everything that she had been feeling since Pierre had started to visit. She told Sonya how she had thought that there could be no recovery from her fall from grace, how surprised she had been that Pierre had come to the house almost every week to see her until Helene passed, her delight in seeing him at the ball, the tenderness in his face when he looked at her, the way he had tried to stick up for her when Marya came to take her away. Sonya listened attentively. When Natasha found she no longer had any words, Sonya turned to face her.

“I am so glad to hear you so happy. I think you love him, or if you don’t then you are falling in love with him. He is a good man.”

Natasha cast her eyes down. “I think you might be right. But what can I do? I can hardly pursue him. It would be improper, and people might talk.”

“And what would they say?”

“They would say that I was taking advantage of his good nature, courting him because he is one of the few men in Moscow that might accept… that might accept damaged goods.” Tears stung her eyes.

Sonya made a small noise and reached for her. Natasha didn’t brush her off, but said “I’m not finished.”

“Go on, then.” Sonya whispered back.

“They might mention Andrei. They might say that since the prince would not take me back I shifted my sights to his friend, his best friend in the world, out of spite or because Pierre is rich or any number of things, oh Sonya, I couldn’t bear it if he heard such things! If he heard them he might believe them, and then he wouldn’t want to be near me.”

“Oh, Tasha, lovely Tasha. Pierre is not such a fool as to be swayed by Moscow society. Even if he ever was, he knows you, he must see that your heart is too gentle and too fragile for such schemes.”

Natasha sniffed.

“And another thing that you should know, lovely, lovely, Natasha, is that that stupid boy Anatole has not tarnished your loveliness.”

“Don’t call him that, please. It was my fault as much as his.”

In the darkness Sonya raised her eyebrows. “It was your fault that he deceived you? Your fault that he kept his marriage a secret from you? I think not. But… Natasha, I hate to ask this, but I think I must. I know that you feel for Pierre, and I hope that he feels the same way, but how do you know? I think caution in this affair would be wise. I could not bear to see you heartbroken again.”

“He proposed.”

“What?” Sonya’s voice was too loud for their closeness and the stillness of the room. Natasha jumped.

“Shhhhhhh!”

“Sorry. But really, he proposed? When?”

“The first time he visited. When I was still ill. Of course, he couldn’t marry me, he was still with Helene, but...”

“And have you told Marya about this?”

“No! And neither will you. This isn’t the same as with Anatole, Sonya.”

There was silence. “I won’t tell her.” Sonya promised.

“Thank you.”

“But I don’t understand. You didn’t tell me, and that was months ago. Why didn’t you say?”

“I was so angry with you, and then he didn’t call for so long that I thought he must have changed his mind. I still think that. He hasn’t said anything. I think perhaps he sees me as some sort of wounded bird, in need of tending and coddling.”

“He promised to visit more often. That’s something to hold onto, isn’t it? His wife died, it would have been odd for him to see us as often as he did before.”

Natasha smiled softly. He had promised, and he had looked so earnest that she couldn’t doubt him.

“I suppose you’re right. But I’ve kept you awake, Sonyushka, and you really must rest.” Natasha said. She slipped out of bed and kissed Sonya’s temple. “Sleep well. And remember, not a word of this to Marya.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Natasha slipped into her own bed, shivering at the coolness of the sheets. She was glad to have confided in Sonya. She had forgotten in her anger that Sonya was never intentionally cruel. And now her secret love was not a secret anymore. The knowledge lifted her heart. Sonya thought that Pierre might hold some affection for her, and the thought shone in her mind as brightly as the stars in the sky above her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back after a whole and entire month? this bitch here- welcome to andrei's chapter, i'm dying inside.

 

 

Andrei found it easy to slip into routines after his heartbreak. Routines were simple. They didn’t require emotions. He went about his business, kept up appearances when necessary, and it seemed to work. After the tasks of the day or the week were done he would indulge in his favourite routine, which was only really two steps long. It was so simple a child could follow it.

Pour a drink (shaking hands are optional, but a nice touch).

Down it.

Repeat until Mary interrupts or unconsciousness sets in.

Sometimes the routine changed slightly. Sometimes the additional steps ‘spill drink’ or ‘knock glass over’ or ‘throw empty glass at wall’ created some interesting variations on a theme. Mary disapproved. She didn’t believe in excess. And. Andrei supposed, she _was_ his sister. That they were family might actually count for something in her mind. She was so good, so infuriatingly dedicated to other people that sometimes it took all his strength not to scream at her and send her cowering from the room. But it wasn’t her fault, and he couldn’t hurt his baby sister like that, not when she meant well.

She had brought him a bible, once, explaining that God had a plan, that this pain was preparation for something greater. She told him that the drinking would kill him, that he had to go out instead of hiding in the house all day. He had shrugged her off. Then she had told him not to become their father.

It was the only thing that stung worse than losing Natasha. The tremble in her voice, the icy determination in her eyes… He could hardly stand to disappoint her. But he couldn’t change how he felt. Natasha was supposed to love him, and only him. They had promised each other to always be true on the first night they’d kissed. He remembered her little gasp just before their lips met, the way her hand curled into his hair when he tried to pull away a mere second later, how she had kissed him again, harder than he had kissed her. He remembered how she had stumbled, accidentally caught his lower lip on her teeth and made him bleed, just a little. She had apologised profusely, even though it was only a scratch and covered her face in her hands. He had had to kiss every one of her fingertips for her to look at him again.

He hardly waited to ask permission from her father before proposing.

He knew he was being unfair. In his heart, Andrei had broken his promise as soon as he’d made it. Pierre had taken his shoulder in his hand when he stumbled, laughing, into the ballroom and smiled that smile that made something in his stomach tighten and Andrei knew he would never forget the softness of his smile when it was pressed against his. He’d never stop aching for it. But Pierre was Pierre, and he couldn’t have him, not really. And how could he complain when Natasha shone so brightly, and shone the brightest for him?

He hadn’t considered that she might shine so brilliantly for someone else. He couldn’t stand it. He had knotted up his feelings for Pierre and pushed them into a corner, and she had tried to elope. If she had kept her affections for Anatole quiet, perhaps kissed him in a garden under a full moon when no one could see then he might have forgiven her. He would be a hypocrite not to. But then, perhaps he was a hypocrite. Hypocrite or not, it stung. Whatever feelings he had hidden in the darker corners of his heart, no one could deny that he had given up Pierre for her, and now he had lost her too. He was alone.

Pour a drink.

Down it.

And then there was a break in his routine.

“Announcing Pierre Bezhukov.”

Andrei swore. What was he doing here? He wasn’t invited, he didn’t want him to see what heartbreak had done to him. He’d purposefully ignored the letters that Pierre had sent specifically to avoid this situation.

“Tell him I’m not home.”

“Sir, I don’t think-”

“Then tell him to go away!”

“Tell me yourself. What have you been doing, Andrei?”

Andrei groaned and buried his face in his hands. He was suddenly acutely aware that he hadn’t washed in a few days and that his shirt was half open and had a particularly large wine stain on the sleeve.

“Um, I think I can take it from here” said Pierre. Andrei heard the click of a closing door, and then they were alone. He didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see the judgement on Pierre’s face, or worse, pity. He didn’t want to see him at all. If Pierre wanted to talk to him, fine. He could talk. That didn’t mean that he had to talk back.

The silence was broken as Pierre pulled up a chair next to him.

“You know, Andrei, the polite thing to do would at least be to offer me a drink.” He said. Andrei snorted.

“The polite thing to do, Pierre, is not to barge into a man’s houses uninvited and unannounced.”

“I was announced, just now. Would you like me to call the servant back? He could do it again.”

Of course Pierre would try to joke about this. “If you insist on pretending not to understand me then I must be plainer. I did not call you here because I had no interest in seeing you.”

“That is particularly impolite.” Pierre coughed to hide his nervousness. Andrei let silence stretch between them. “If my presence here is so detestable then I suppose I must take my leave, or risk increasing your indifference towards me, or worse. I bid you good day, sir. I shall not call on you without invitation again.”

Pierre stood. It was as if Andrei had been stabbed. Indifference? How could he be indifferent to his dearest friend? It was precisely because he cared so much for Pierre that he’d been avoiding him. When Pierre loved someone, he loved them with every last piece of himself, and he would tear himself apart if he thought they were hurting. Andrei couldn’t have that. He’d been the source of too much pain. He sighed and grabbed Pierre’s hand before he could leave the room.

“Pierre, wait. I am not… I am not myself. Please, forgive me.”

“It is already done. I’ve done far worse under the influence of drink, and likely more often than you, unless you’ve been making up for lost time.” He could hear the gentle smile in Pierre’s voice, could picture his exact expression. _Look at him, you fool_ , Andrei thought to himself. _You are holding his hand, you can look at his face._ Before he could do anything, Pierre knelt beside his chair and clasped his hand tightly with both of his. “I cannot pretend I know why you are doing this to yourself, but I cannot recommend it.”

Andrei stifled a laugh. “If you are going to give me a lecture on the evils of drink, I must warn you that Mary has thoroughly exhausted the subject and I shall pour the rest of this wine over your head if you try.”

Pierre chuckled. Something warm blossomed in Andrei’s stomach. God, it was good to hear that laugh. He should’ve called on Pierre before now. It hadn’t felt right, but what could possibly be more natural than this? Pierre’s unhappy marriage had drawn them apart, it was true.  Even so, their friendship had survived so much, and he had been going to let it die because of a woman? It was unthinkable. He smiled at Pierre. “Tell me of your life, my friend. We have barely spoken in months. Do you have news?”

“None, I’m afraid. My life is still mostly study. I read and write, I walk about town, and avoid women only interested in my money. I’ve made that mistake once before, and I have no intention of repeating it.”

“So it is to be the life of a bachelor for you then?”

Pierre shrugged. “Perhaps. I have had one wife. I have no need for another for the moment. If there were a woman I could love who loved me…” he trailed off. Andrei watched his eyes grow distant and his brow furrowed slightly. Pierre’s faraway look reminded him a little of when he had met Helene. Could someone have caught his eye so soon? The warmth in his stomach turned into jealous heat for a moment. He had only just got him back, surely he would not have to give him up again so soon? He dismissed the thought. He would not lose Pierre. This time he would make sure of it. He released Pierre’s hand and collapsed back against his armchair.

“So we shall be bachelors together, eh, Pierre? It’s not the life I had expected to return too, but if I can share it with you then it can’t be so bad.”

“Not so bad indeed.” said Pierre. He caught his breath as if about to speak but seemed to think the better of it. Andrei leaned towards him.  

“I know that look, Pierre. You can’t fool me. What are you hiding?”

Pierre looked down, suddenly very interested in the rug he was kneeling on.

“Pierre…” Andrei warned.

“I saw Natasha yesterday.”

The air left Andrei’s lungs. He couldn’t breathe. What was the point in Pierre mentioning her?

“And?” He tried to feign casualness but the word came out wrong.

“And… Well… Nothing, I suppose. I thought you might like to know how she was getting on.”

Andrei’s gut twisted. “Why should I? She broke off the engagement and tried to elope with your brother in law. Our lives are now entirely separate affairs.”

“Yes, I suppose they are-”

“Besides which,” Andrei said, temper flaring, “I told you that I didn’t want to talk about her the day I came home. I told you, didn’t I?”

“You did. I’m sorry, Andrei. I didn’t think.”

Andrei sighed, feeling the fight leave him. “No, I’m sorry. Let’s not fight.” He fiddled with his sleeve. Damn stain. It would be such a pain to get out, but it was a fine shirt and he’d hate to lose it forever. He’d see what the maid could do. “How… How is she?”

Pierre raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, much to Andrei’s relief. “As well as can be expected, I think. Sonya is ill. Marya keeps a close eye on them both now, though I think Natasha has learnt her lesson. I could be wrong, but I think she regrets her lapse of judgement, even if the blame lies at least as much with the Kuragin boy as it does her.”

Andrei nodded. He had fought so long to keep his anger and his bitterness towards Natasha, but it was oddly cathartic to hear that she had not been completely ruined. Though it pained him to admit it, after gaining some distance he could see that Pierre was right in his estimation of blame. Anatole was a notorious womaniser, and he had to admit that he was charming. Besides which, Anatole was there when Andrei wasn’t. If he hadn’t abandoned Natasha to the Moscow wolves, perhaps her love for him would have survived that poncing peacock’s charms. But it was no use thinking about it now. She was no longer his. Not that he wanted her to be his, he reminded himself.

A clock chimed in the distance and he cursed. “Pierre, old friend, please forgive me, but I must bid you adieu. I promised to have the  Morozovs for dinner tonight and Mary might have my guts for garters if I do not clean up before they get here.”

“Mary? You mean the sweet little mouse I knew growing up who would pester us in the library? She would never.”

“You don’t know what desperation will drive a woman to do. We have the good name of our family to uphold, after all.”

“In that case,” Pierre got to his feet with a groan, “oh, by god, I feel old.”

Andrei smirked. “You’re younger than I am. If you’re old, what does that make me?”

“A wizened crone.” Pierre took his hand and lifted it to his lips. “You see, I pay my respects to my elders. But now I shall take my leave- before I see the mouse transform into a wildcat.”

Andrei ignored the fluttering in his chest and said, “Oh, she’d never show her fierce side to you. You’re a guest, and a respectable one at that.” He stood and pulled Pierre into a hug. “It is so good to see you. I’ve been a fool, and you are a better friend than I deserve.”

“Stop that. And thank me by cutting down on the wine, you don’t want to end up like me.”

Andrei pulled away just enough to look up into Pierre’s eyes. Once upon a time he had been taller than Pierre, but those days had long since passed. “If I am anything like you, I consider it a good thing.”

Pierre’s eyes flicked to his lips and back up again. “Right. Yes. Well.”

“I mean it, Pierre. You’re a better man than I.”

“Oh, I quite doubt that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok but did they kiss tho- you decide


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to angst town

The next day, Pierre received what could only be described as a summons from Natasha. The letter she sent read simply: 'Dear Pierre, After meeting you at the Melukov’s ball I have decided that you have been shockingly remiss in keeping the promise of friendship that you made, and so you must come and see us as soon as possible, lest you forget me again. Tea is at 3 o clock. I shall have the servants set the room for four. Yours, Natasha'.

Natasha had taken far longer over the letter than its brevity betrayed. There were dozens of pages of false starts that she had hidden under her mattress or thrown into the fire. Finally, a squeak and a hurried apology from a servant (something about expecting to find her bedroom empty so late in the morning) had ended her frenzy of inky scribbling. She didn't want the servants to be able to gossip about Pierre- or her, for that matter. Her note was supposed to toe the lines of formality while keeping step with her growing sensation that she might be falling in love again. It would be the third time it had happened. She liked falling in love, she decided. It was so deliciously different each time. First love had been so gentle, so tender that she felt her heart might burst with the anticipation of it. Its tension and stolen moments of sweetness left her soaring for days afterwards. Then second love had swept in. It was sharp as a winter storm- it burned and it bit and it thrilled all at once- but it once it was gone she was left frozen and bruised. Third... Well. She would see, in time. For now it was a gentle humming in her heart, pinpricks of light breaking through a crushing darkness. It only took an hour for Pierre’s reply to arrive. 

‘Your wish is my command- Pierre’. 

 

 

He was late. Perhaps he was not coming, Natasha thought, then chided herself for it. He was only a little late. It was ungracious to assume he would not come. She stabbed her embroidery with more vehemence that the scrap of fabric deserved. But he had promised he would come! Was his lateness supposed to show her that he no longer cared for her? After another violent stitch her needle slipped. 

“Ow!”

Sonya looked up sharply. “Natalie?”

Natasha shook her head. “It’s nothing, I pricked my finger.” Get a hold of yourself, Natasha, she thought. Sonya reached out and took her hand, gasping a little.  
“Natasha, you’re bleeding. “

“I told you, it’s nothing.” Natasha replied, drawing it back. 

“Oh, you must let me do something, I-“ Sonya’s sentence cut off abruptly as Mary’s strode into the room and clapped her hands. Natasha tucked her hand behind her back as Marya entered. Sonya rolled her eyes. Natasha was about to respond by sticking her tongue out at her cousin, but thought better of it when she caught Marya’s eye. It was truly amazing how Marya could give such clear messages with a look alone. It was almost immediately apparent why Marya had prevented the girls’ good-natured bickering. Pierre stood in the doorway just behind Marya, still in his coat and twisting his gloves in his hands. 

“Pierre has come for tea,.I trust the two of you will make him feel welcome while I go find out if the servants have readied the samovar. Oh, and Natasha, dear, there is either blood or a very unfortunate red stitch on your embroidery. I hope that wasn’t an artistic choice on your part, if it was I would highly recommend you reconsider it.” Marya said. She turned and touched Pierre on the shoulder. The smile she gave him was softer than usual. “I’ll take your coat, dear. Now, there’s a free seat next to Natasha, I’ll be back shortly.” 

After Pierre shrugged his coat off he went to sit by Natasha. “So. Good afternoon.”  
There was a moments pause in which no one spoke. Sonya had returned to her own embroidery as if to give the two some space. Natasha knew she would be listening to every word she and Pierre exchanged. Somehow, now that he was finally here she couldn’t quite think what to say to him. He cleared his throat. “ So, was it blood or unfortunate stitch work?” 

“Excuse me?” 

Pierre flushed. “Your embroidery. Marya said… Never mind.”

“Oh.”Natasha said. Why had Marya said anything? She half hoped that the chair she was sat in might turn into some sort of velvety monster and eat her to escape her embarrassment. “I pricked my finger whilst sewing.”

“How unfortunate. What happened?”

“I… was distracted.” By you, she thought. “My hand slipped, and voila,” She waved her hand at him to demonstrate her point, “One pricked finger.” 

Pierre caught her hand in both of his. Natasha could barely it, surrounded as it was with his. He lifted it to his lips and brushed his lips gently against his own knuckles. Natasha’s throat went dry. “There. All better.” It was an innocent kiss, her hand released as soon as it had left his lips, no lingering gazes, and he hadn’t even kissed her, not really. It was something you might do for a child, and yet, and yet, and yet… 

Sonya coughed and flashed Natasha an altogether too knowing look, amusement sparking in her eyes. She always could read Natasha like a book. It was what she loved about her, and what she hated. She could only pray that Sonya had grown out of making kissy faces at her the moment the object of her affection left the room.

“We should go to the other room, where Marya will be waiting with the tea. I believe we have pies today, fresh from the oven, and I for one want to eat them hot.” Sonya announced, then walked out of the room. Natasha fiddled with the edge of her embroidery. This was her chance to have a moment alone with Pierre, and she was grateful to Sonya for giving it to them. 

“Pierre-”

“Natasha-”

Their voices broke against each other. Natasha smothered a smile as Pierre blushed. He was so gentle. He would never hurt her, could not, even.

“Ah, you first.” He said.

“What a gentleman you are.” Natasha replied, her smile widening as his blush deepened. “I was only going to say that… that I owe you a great deal of gratitude. When you first came to see me, after… after everything, it was the first tenderness anyone outside the family had showed me. I don’t think you realise how much it meant to me. How much you mean-”

Tears pricked at her eyes. She would not cry. Pierre had seen her weak once, and to ask him to suffer it again would be unspeakable. She was vaguely aware of his voice saying her name softly, and then she was wrapped in his arms, her face buried in his chest. 

“My lovely Natasha, you don’t need to thank me for that.”

“But-“

“Shush, let me speak. You can protest later if you must, though I hope you don’t. Please, please believe that I only said and did what any honest, good man in his right mind would have done. You were in need of comfort so I sought to provide it, but I think… I think I have cause to beg your forgiveness, in fact I am sure of it.”

Natasha looked up at him and frowned. “Forgiveness? Whatever for?”

Pierres hold on her loosened so that he could look her in the eye. “For my selfishness. It was wrong of me to offer myself to you when I was not my own to give, and when you were… well. As you were. I should have left well enough alone.”

“Oh.” She had been wrong. He could hurt her, even if it was intention to soothe a wound that never existed. God, this wasn’t fair! She wanted to cry, to stamp her feet, to shake him or kiss him or do something, anything to get his attention. But that wasn’t fair. If he truly regretted his actions she would not force him to change his mind. Helene had been a complicated woman, and he deserved better than to be cajoled into another match that he didn’t really want, even if it broke her heart. 

“Do you forgive me?”

Pierres voice was so full of fear and longing. It broke her heart even more. Natasha swallowed her emotions. She would not lose her composure again. Gently she pulled away from him and smoothed her skirts. “As far as I’m concerned there is nothing to forgive, but as it means so much to you, then yes. Of course I forgive you. It is all forgotten. And now, I think, it is time for tea. We should join the others before they come looking.” She turned quickly.

Pierre opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it with a small shake of his head. “To tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you like it please please leave a comment or leave kudos, I literally cannot motivate myself to write without being pressured!!!! I love everyone who read this and I hope you are all great and have lovely days


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha had been quiet for the rest of tea. She kept herself to herself, speaking only when prompted by others. Pierre had spotted a worried look pass between Sonya and Marya, and busied himself with his cake. He had the horrible feeling that this was his fault, and he could say nothing to fix his blunder in front of Natasha’s family. He didn’t know if they knew what had happened between him and Natasha all those months ago, and even if they did it was too personal to mention. He forced himself to swallow his tea, hoping he could swallow the acid threatening to rise in his throat. Why had he said that? Did she think he had meant that he didn’t think her worth marrying? He was a fool, a damned fool. He knew she could never love him as he loved her, but perhaps he had been wrong to think that her thanks were motivated by obligation rather than genuine feeling. He had no doubt that she was grateful, but he hated the thought that she might feel tied to a man like him because he was kind to her in a moment of weakness. It was no excuse, though, not really. She had told him that he had been her rock and he had thrown that rock away. What sort of a man would do that?

The tea lapsed into silenced. Natasha gazed at her empty teacup with such intensity that Pierre was surprised that it didn’t explode. Pierre cleared his throat. She didn’t look up at him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It had been quiet for too long.

“I hear that there is to be a party on Saturday night. At the Kirillovich’s.” Pierre said, hoping to break the silence. Marya made a polite noise of interest. “I was wondering if perhaps you would be in attendance?”

Marya smiled slightly and set her teacup down with a clink. “You seem to have taken a turn for the social. Will you be there? I remember you as a solitary man, Pierre, not one who loved spending time at balls and operas and parties.”

Pierre flushed. “I… well, I, uh… As you say, I enjoy the company of my books and my fire very much. Until recently I hadn’t realised that even better company can be kept when in the presence of certain other members of society.” His eyes lingered on Natasha as he spoke. Her eyes darted up to meet his, then stubbornly returned to her mug. 

“I’m afraid that we shall not be going. Natasha has already seen plenty of society in recent days and I would hate for Sonya to be alone there. She can be painfully shy when it suits her, and I have no use for dull prattle.” 

“I see.” Pierre murmured. Silence fell again. This was ridiculous. Natasha was always the one to bring a room to life, and she was silent, and it was all his fault. He had blotted out her light. He had to be the one to fix things. He had to at least try. He pushed his chair back and stood. The three women looked up at him sharply, Natasha’s eyes wide and wary. “Marya, I hope you’ll forgive me for the interruption, but I’d like to speak with Natasha. Alone, please. I fear I may have offended her and I wish to put things right.” 

It was the first time he had seen Marya anything close to speechless. She gestured at them both that they could go, then hissed Natasha’s name when she did not move. Natasha huffed angrily and stood up. She stalked out of the room past Pierre, not waiting for him to follow. When they reached the drawing room she turned on him. 

“What on God’s good earth possessed you to do that?”

She was blazing with fury.

“Natasha, I-”  
“You what? You felt sorry for me so you decided to humiliate me further with another one of your apologies? I’m not a little girl, Pierre. You don’t have to try to protect me and my delicate sensibilities from anything that might not go my way. I have spent months believing that you saw me in a different light to the one I now know you really see me in. And now Marya will ask questions, and Sonya will be afraid that something awful has happened, and for what? Your pride? To spare you the thought that you may have been at all unchivalrous for even a moment?”

Her words landed like blows and Pierre flinched. “Natasha, please, listen to me…”

“There’s nothing for you say.”

“But-“

“God, will you make me say it?”

Pierre’s thoughts were brought to halt. “Say what?”

Natasha let out a choked laugh. “Apparently you will. I admit it was foolish, the stupid daydreaming of a naïve child, but I thought you-’ She turned away from her, covering her face with her hands. Pierre reached out hesitantly to comfort her but let his arm fall back to his side. She would hardly appreciate his comfort now. Natasha took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Pierre couldn’t help but to marvel at her strength, even now.

“Since that day I have been sustained by the thought that at least one person in this godforsaken city didn’t see me as less than I had been. And it wasn’t just any man. It was a good, honourable, and kind man who saw me at my worst, got down on his knees, and told me he would marry me if circumstances allowed. And today that same man has come to me to tell me that he regrets his actions, that he never meant a word of it, that it was the noble thing to do, nothing more. And now I must accept that whatever Sonya tells me, I will never be free of the stain. If I marry, it will be to someone with money who wants a pretty wife, and is willing to overlook my past. I have had love, Pierre, and I had dared to hope I might have it again. Nothing you say can fix that.”

Pierre’s mouth fell open. “You mean… you meant it?”

“Meant what? Oh, forget it.” She pushed past Pierre, angrily brushing her tears away. “This was a mistake.”

“Natasha, please! You don’t understand, I didn’t apologise because I thought you weren’t good enough for me, I was apologising because I know I’m not good enough for you. You’re right, I’ve been thoughtless and I’ve hurt you but I swear on my soul, Natasha, I never meant to.”

Natasha whirled around. Pierre felt his heart in his throat. This was when she would laugh in his face, tell him that he was right and that she never wanted to see him again. At least he could say he had tried.

“You thought what?”

“I… I thought… Natasha, look at me. How could I be worthy of you? You’re so bright, you blind me.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I do know. Natasha, do you remember what else I said that night?” he said. Natasha made no move to leave, no move to respond. It seemed that the floor was his. “My conditions were that if I were not myself, that if I were the best, brightest, handsomest man on earth, and that I were free, I would ask you to marry me in an instant, but dear, dear Natasha, I am not that man, even if I am free now. I don’t want you to feel obliged to me. I couldn’t bear to see you married to a broken, plain man with nothing to offer but his affections, poor as they were, and his possessions, rich as he might be. You deserve nothing less than the best, whatever mistakes you may have made-”

“Oh, Pierre…”

“-and so you must see, Natasha, that I cannot marry you, not as I am. Maybe one day I can be worthy of you, but until that day all I dare to hope for is your friendship. Will you grant me that? Can you forgive me?”

She closed the distance between them and cupped his face in her hands. A tear rolled down her cheek. Pierre fought the urge to wipe it away. 

“We have made a mess of things, haven’t we, Pierre? But if you will not have me because of some misguided notion about your worth then you have to promise me something.”

“Anything,” he whispered. “Anything for you.”

Natasha smiled and stroked his cheek. “Promise you won’t marry anyone else while you find your way to being the man you want to be, and promise that you’ll let me stay by your side while you do.”

“Of course.”

Natasha stretched up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Marya will be wondering where we’ve got to. I wouldn’t be surprised if they heard us. Well, me, really. I did all the shouting. One of these days I’ll learn to control my temper. Are you coming? I can smooth things over with her.”

Pierre shook his head. “I should go. I must confess that your godmother scares me a little.”

“She scares me a little too, but don’t tell her that. Don’t worry though. I’ll protect you.” Natasha pulled away and slipped over to the door. “I’ll tell her something came up and you had to leave, but that everything is fine now.” She paused. “I’ll miss you,” she said, and then she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What even is formatting, please like or comment, if you’ve stuck with me and read this I love you so so much, thank you all for your patience with my sporadic update schedule!


	6. Chapter 6

Life fell into a smooth, rippling pattern after that day. If Sonya or Marya still held any suspicions as to what had happened between Natasha and Pierre, they did not voice them. Natasha spent as much time with Pierre as she could, each moment together drenched in a shy sort of adoration. It was the sweetest thing Natasha could think of, sweeter than honey or cake or sweets. Even so, an edge of sadness coloured their meetings, the sadness of an unfulfilled love. Natasha’s heart broke for the kind, intelligent man who stammered and looked away when she touched his arm or his hand or his cheek. If he could see himself as she saw him… 

It was no use to think of it. She would never be able cure him if his melancholy alone, it was too deeply entrenched in his soul. She sometimes wondered if he purposefully pushed happiness away. It would be so easy, she thought, to be married and have done with it. He loved her, and she loved him. It should have been so simple. In many ways it was- each moment with him made her heart light, and she know by the soft smile that graced his features that she had the same effect on him. Her Pierre was the most wonderful thing to happen to her in a long time. Their friendship was so full of joy that it almost filled the chasm that gaped between them. 

Almost.

Natasha knew he wasn’t her Pierre, not truly. Besides his stubborn insistence that they remained friends and only friends, there was another part of him that he hadn’t shared with her, some tender piece of his heart that he kept cradled away from the light. She longed for him to let her into that part of himself. It was her suspicion that whatever it was that lay there was the thing that kept him from giving into her completely, and God knew she had done her very best to tempt him. He was far too much a gentleman, looking away when she had ‘accidentally’ dropped her needle at her feet at bend over to pick it up. Any other man would’ve taken the opportunity to ogle her neck, her shoulders, her chest, but not Pierre. It was infuriating and endearing all at once. 

Pierre would come and go, like a tide drawn in and out against the shore. She ached for him when he was away. 

Still, it wasn’t all bad, nor was it all Pierre. Moscow had forgotten her so called indiscretion (but really, what business was it of theirs who held her heart at any given moment?) and under Pierre’s influence Marya had begun to ease her grip on Natasha’s life. It was thanks to that that she had been allowed out in the coach with only Sonya and the driver for companions. They had toured the majority of the city, circling between companionable silence and light gossiping. Natasha lay her head against the window, trying to ignore its uncomfortable rattling. Outside, the houses grew larger and more extravagant. A shiver of recognition ran down her spine. 

Andrei.

They were approaching his house- she should know, she had visited often enough. This was the closest she had been to him since he returned. Her heart tightened in her chest. He hadn’t wanted to see her, and how could she blame him? She would not apologise for her feelings for Anatole, such as they had been, but it shamed her to think how much she had hurt Andrei by refusing his suit after all they had shared together. She had not thought to ask Pierre how he had taken her plea for forgiveness. She had not thought to ask Pierre about Andrei at all, and he had never mentioned him. Strange, she thought, how completely Andrei had detached himself from her world. She had never anticipated that two people living so closely in the same city could be so distant from one another. 

Sonya must have guessed her train of thought, for she squeezed Natasha’s hand and drew her close. Natasha let her head fall onto Sonya’s soft shoulders, and they sat like that for what felt like an eternity. 

That endless minute was enough time for the horses to bolt. After the fact, the driver couldn’t say exactly what spooked them: a cat, a passing shadow, a flag fluttering in the breeze…

Time restarted in a frantic hustle to the pounding of hooves on cobblestones, and the shriek of the horses. The carriage threw the girls onto the floor, ricocheting off the seats and each other. Outside there was a clamour of movement, people rushing from their houses to see what the ruckus was about. The carriage tipped and someone screamed and everything was a blur and then-

Quiet. A faint ringing in Natasha’s ears. The carriage door being forced open, strong hands lifting her out, a cloak being wrapped tight around her. Her knees buckled. Some distant part of her mind noted that she had ripped her dress. Then she collapsed. 

She awoke in a darkened room, draped over a chaise-lounges that seemed somehow familiar. Something moved in the darkness.

“Sonya?”

“She’s resting, but well enough. A little bruised and a few scrapes, but otherwise well.Marya is watching her. It’s a miracle neither of you were hurt.”

A strange mix of relief and dread filled Natasha’s chest. So Andrei was her saviour. Her gut rebelled at the thought that the first time he saw her after their separation was in such a weak position. It seemed unfair. And yet neither she nor Sonya had been hurt in the crash. It was a miracle, truth be told. For Andrei to see her beaten was a small price to pay for their health.

“Would you like a light?” Andrei’s voice was rough, hesitant. Natasha nodded. He took a match and lit an oil lamp. “I thought this would be softer than the daylight.”

“Thank you.”

Natasha took the moment to inspect his face. He had grown something approximating a beard, though in truth it was little more than unchecked stubble. His cheeks were thinner than she remembered, and his eyes were bloodshot and haunted. A chill ran through her. Had she done this, or was it the effect of the war? Both seemed likely explanations. Despite his gaunt appearance, he was still as handsome as ever. She dropped her gaze. It wasn’t for her to think that about him anymore. That time in their lives had passed. 

Remember Pierre.

And she did. She thought of his smile and his laugh and his gentle hands and his soft chest and his sweet, mournful eyes… Then soft lips and a hard jaw line and strong arms lifting her off her feet to spin her round seeped into her thoughts and as the two men became one and then separated out again, she realised she loved him. Her heart clenched. She shouldn’t be here, cradled in Andrei’s chaise, gazing at him through the lamp light. It was a cruel quirk of fate, throwing them together like this. If it had been up to her… 

She didn’t know.  
Andrei’s face was impossible to read. It was a habit of his, one she had never really considered, that he would retreat into himself to hide his feelings from anyone who might be able to use them against him. It stung more now than it ever had before. Before, it was simply his way. Now, she had given him good reason to hide from her. She wondered if the mask would ever drop again. 

“I know I have no right,” she began, “but I truly am sorry for how I left things. Truly. I wish..” What did she wish? That she had never loved Anatole? No, not that. It had been the making of her. There was a steel in her she hadn’t had before, and she wouldn’t give it up for the world. She knew she could survive the harshness of the world. It was an important lesson. Did she wish that she had never loved Andrei, then? The wrongness of the thought rang through her like a clanging bell. She could never want that. She sighed. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer. I just… I just wanted to say it.”

Andrei was marble. Then he stood. “I should check on Sonya,” he said, walking to the door. His fingers traced the grain of the wood down to the handle, and then he hesitated. “I don’t hate you, you know. You should know that.” He looked as though he might say more, but he shook his head. Then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s back after months of radio silence?? I am so sorry about the wait, life and a broken laptop happened. I love you all so much, hope you enjoy!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s back! Back again!
> 
> I lived bitches
> 
> Also I’m so sorry for the wait I’m the Worst but I love you pls read comment kudos etc this is still a thing that’s happening I’ve just been plunged into stress and mental health issues in the past months 
> 
> Muah, enjoy

Natasha had burst into his life again, dripping light on the mahogany floors of his study and the velvet of his furniture. She was an explosion in human form, and her reappearance rocked Andrei to his core. He leaned his head against the doorframe and sucked in a breath.  
Steady.  
God, it wasn’t fair. Not to him, not to her. He had been content to let the past fade- to rekindle his friendship with Pierre and carry on as if he had never met Natasha. It had been good, too. With Pierre’s help he had managed to rouse himself from his drunken stupor, falling back into a semblance of normality. Pierre had never let him down. He had been there as often as he could be, gently teasing and pushing him to do better. 

Andrei hated to think what might have been without Pierre’s influence.

It wasn’t the same. He knew that, could see it in Pierre’s hesitation whenever he pulled him a little too close for the scholar’s comfort. His time away had placed a silken veil between them, and try as he might Andrei had failed to completely brush it away. 

And here was Natasha, resting on his sofa, as beautiful as the first time he saw her. He punched the wall, gritting his teeth against the memories that threatened to flood him. A delicate hand on his shoulder drew his attention. Turning, he saw Mary. She hovered behind him like a bird, concern written across her face. 

“How is she?” She asked. 

“Well enough,” Andrei answered, “She’s resting. She’s not harmed, apart from the shock. And Sonya?”

Mary nodded. “Much the same. I’ve sent for their godmother. She shouldn’t be long.”

“Of course.” 

Andrei’s heart panged as if something had squeezed it. He didn’t want Natasha to go. Not yet. There was so much left to say. 

But then again, perhaps there was nothing at all. Mary’s face softened at the flicker of shadow that passed over his face and she squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m sorry you had to see her. I know it’s difficult. Perhaps… perhaps you could take this opportunity to forgive her- at the very least to let go of some of your resentment. She’s a good woman. I regret the way our meeting went. I don’t want you to regret this one.”

Mary pulled Andrei into a tight hug. Her head rested under his chin, tucked close so she could hear his heart beating. Andrei swallowed a mirthless laugh or a cry, he wasn’t sure which. Natasha was already forgiven. How could she not be? How could he possibly hold his bitterness inside now that he had seen her? She was everything. Everything. He couldn’t keep hating her. He hadn’t hated her in a long time, he knew that now, he had just kept up the pretence because it was easier to wallow in alcohol and bad choices than it was to forgive and let go. 

He had to let her go. The thought rang in his head like a bell. It hung there softly, the way the bells of the cathedral left their tone suspended in the Moscow air long after they were struck. It was a hollow thought- hollow, but true. Natasha was a beacon of light and love and laughter and she was not his. She could shine down on him for his whole life long and he would be content just to watch (he hoped, he prayed, he had to be), but he would never hold her again. That was another man’s lot. A better man’s. She would fall in love again, and be beautiful in someone else’s home, in someone else’s bed. The first rays of morning sun would kiss her skin and make her glow between sheets that were foreign to him, and he would move on. Look after Mary. Perhaps write a book. That was more Pierre’s forte than his own. All he knew was society and war, and he was sick of both. He would find something, though. And Pierre would be there by his side to help him. Perhaps Pierre would write the book, and he would drag him out of his study to walk the gardens till they found a private spot they could call their own. 

Yes, he thought, he could survive the loss of Natasha if he had Pierre. His guiding star.


End file.
